by Bethany-Kris
It wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t theirs.
He just ...
Didn’t want to put them in that position.
At all.
Was that so fucking bad?
Les wouldn’t understand.
Corrado was so lost to his thoughts that, for a moment, he’d forgotten where he was and why he was there. So stuck in his mind, in fact, that he didn’t see the young woman approaching the Porsche until she had practically ripped open the door, and threw herself into the passenger seat. He didn’t see her face at first, although he heard the sob that ripped out of her chest. He didn’t know what she looked like, but he saw her hands balled into fists against the leather of the seat, and shaking. The dress she wore—it looked like something someone might wear to a wedding, but not on the bride—had ridden up around her thighs in her haste.
And then she looked up.
The wide-rimmed church hat likely hid her face when she was looking straight on, or even down, for that matter. Her dark brown hair had been pulled back into a sleek chignon, and while the makeup on her face had taken hell from streaks of tears ...
He still had to look twice.
Take a breath.
Blink.
Soft, dainty features set off her whole face. Small lips, and a thin nose that curved up at the end just a bit. Oval face, with wide, doe-like eyes that made her look entirely too innocent. Tanned skin, and curves that filled out that dress perfectly.
Shit.
Corrado didn’t know what in the hell he expected from Ginevra Calabrese. He hadn’t given her a lot of thought—why should he?
He was looking at her now, though.
She was filling his thoughts now.
This felt like trouble.
A lot of it.
He just didn’t know why.
“Drive,” she snapped.
Angry.
Terrified.
So why did she sound musical?
“Drive!”
Corrado said nothing, simply checked his mirrors, and then let off the brake as he hit the gas hard. Time for the second part of this damn road trip.
18.
Ginevra
How long had they been driving now?
An hour?
She checked the clock on the dashboard of the Porsche, still kind of stunned she was in a Porsche at all. About an hour and a half of driving, it seemed.
The man in the driver’s seat continued his stretch of silence—he’d not said one word to her from the moment she got in his car. Or ... she suspected this was his car. Who else would it belong to?
Glancing over at him, again, Ginevra took in his profile. With the sun still high in the sky, she didn’t have to imagine anything about the way he looked when it was all there for her to see. From his strong jaw dusted with a bit of dark facial hair, to the dusky olive skin tone with just a touch of tan. His fingers—long, and deft, she thought—flexed around the steering wheel in a rhythmic fashion, as though he was thinking about something, and his hands told the story of his thoughts.
She wondered if he had been stressed about something before she got in the car—maybe about picking her up—if only because where his high-fade hairstyle melted into the longer bits of hair at the top of his head was messy. Like he’d been running those fingers through it, and the strands fell out of place.
Not that it looked bad.
Nothing about the man looked bad.
What was his name again?
Andino said it when he brought her a gift for their wedding day to her private suite. Her get out of jail free card, she thought, sadly. A way out, he’d told her.
But what was his name again?
“Corrado,” she said softly, remembering it all at once.
Just as fast, the man in the driver’s seat reacted, his head swinging in her direction for the first time since she had entered his vehicle. His profile did no justice to his rugged features when he looked at her head-on.
Strong lines.
Brown eyes, flecked with gold.
Intense all over.
“What?”
His tone, as sharp as the edge of a blade, shocked her. He seemed angry, his jaw tensing as his gaze flicked over her, but she didn’t know why. Maybe he didn’t want to be here, or to help her. She understood that—who would want to help someone they didn’t know?
A part of her didn’t want to be here, either.
She left her sisters back there.
With them.
It made her heart ache.
She had to make a choice—her own freedom, or to sacrifice it. Except, when that freedom had been dangled in front of her fingertips, with the promise that it might be okay in the end, the first thing she had done was snatched it right up.
Greedy hands shaking, and all.
Was that selfish?
She didn’t know.
“What?” Corrado asked again, his tone softening slightly the second time.
Ginevra swallowed hard. “Sorry, I just remembered your name, that’s all.”
“And who told you my name?”
“Andino.”
Corrado nodded. “Don’t trust very much he says, let me tell you.”
“He’s the one who gave me this chance,” she replied quietly, “so all I have to go on about him is that he made the right choice for me.”
The man glanced her way again. “Arranged marriage, was it?”
“Not one I wanted.”
“One rarely does.”
He’d said that so dryly, and yet, managed to sound amused at the same time. Ginevra found, the longer she stared at him, the more confused she was about him, and who he was. How did Andino know the man, and was he someone she could trust? Where was she even going with him; where was he taking her, and what in the hell were they going to do once they got there?
She had too many questions.
And no fucking answers.
Ginevra’s heart grew heavier the longer she thought about it. Her sisters, without her and their mother ... the fact she was now a girl on the run with a man she didn’t even know, that the engagement ring she had been made to wear was still on her fucking finger.
“God,” she mumbled.
Corrado glanced her way again.
She was quick to wipe away the tears that slipped down her cheeks, but that didn’t really help. The stupid things kept coming, like a floodgate had been opened, and now she couldn’t control it. She went from silent tears to hiccupping sobs in a blink, and she felt foolish for it, too. Not that she could stop it, now.
“Stop that,” Corrado muttered.
Ginevra dragged in a ragged breath. “I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
His sharp tone was back.
It made her cry more.
What was wrong with her?
“I don’t do tears, fix your face.”
“Excuse you?”
“I can’t handle a woman that cries all the time, so quit it.”
Fuck him.
“Would you shut up?” Ginevra barked back. “You have no idea what my life has been like lately, or what happened to me today! Just ... shut up!”
Corrado blinked, murmuring, “You’re kind of a mess, donna.”
“And you’re kind of an asshole. What about it?”
Those tears still hadn’t stopped flowing. Corrado let out a harsh noise, but that time when he looked her way, a sympathy stared back from him. She didn’t know what happened until the tires of the car crunched on gravel, and they slowed to a stop. He came across the seats after throwing off his buckle. He snatched a couple of napkins from the cup holder between them, and with a soft, but quick, hand, wiped the wetness from her face.
And likely what was left of her ruined makeup, too.
He kept stroking away those tears, never saying anything the entire time. Part of Ginevra liked that far too much—the way he looked as he focused on his task of wiping away her tears, and how he did it with such sile
nt intensity that it struck her quiet.
And made her stop crying at the same time.
Finally, she whispered, “Thank you.”
Corrado shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t mention it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home. Or, a place I used to call home ... I’m sure they’ll be surprised to see you with me when I arrive.”
She frowned.
What did that mean?
Who else would he show up with?
“For how long?” she asked.
“Apparently,” Corrado drawled out, sitting back in his seat and buckling up again, “until I am told otherwise. Settle in, I’m sure it’ll be fun.”
Yeah.
But would it really?
• • •
“Home sweet home,” Corrado muttered, dropping Ginevra’s box—the one Andino had given her with the forged passport, and other things she might need—to the floor. “Feel free to find a room you like, except the master bedroom, it’s ... mine,” he said, after hesitating. “And yeah, that’s about it for now.”
He didn’t say anything else, simply headed down the hall without taking off his blazer, or removing his shoes. Ginevra didn’t feel comfortable enough to walk through this Toronto penthouse without taking her manners into consideration. If he owned the place, then he could do what he wanted—she hadn’t been raised that way.
Hanging up the hat that she had used to hide her face as she escaped from the church, Ginevra noticed the coats hanging along the rack on the wall. It wasn’t that there were coats there that made her hesitate, but more the fact that they were two entirely different styles.
Leather.
Blazers.
She kicked off her shoes, and moved them into one of the cubbies underneath the row of jackets, noticing there, too, were different styles of shoes. And not just a selection of loafers, but rather, combat boots, a pair of Doc Martens, and then next to those, runners, Armani loafers, and a pair of shined, black leather dress shoes that would work with any suit.
And just with a quick glance, she could tell the shoes were two different sizes. Like they belonged to two people.
Two men.
Did someone else live here?
“Is this yours?” Ginevra called after Corrado. “This penthouse, I mean?”
He didn’t answer her back.
She tried not to be annoyed.
Not knowing where he went after he disappeared past the large entrance, decorated in black and white marble, Ginevra headed down the hall. That same sleek and stylish décor followed her deeper into the penthouse. She passed by a sitting room with an entire wall covered by windows overlooking a busy part of Toronto’s center, and another that held a television large enough to be a projection screen. The black leather sectional sitting atop a similarly colored rug looked inviting, and God knew she needed to relax, but she had questions.
Only one man could currently answer them.
Overtop the couch hung a chandelier made up of metal fragments that mirrored the light from the inverted lights in the ceiling. Hardwood floors gleamed under her feet. Artwork covered the walls, and fresh flowers rested in a vase that she passed as she moved toward the noise coming from a room over.
Did someone change them regularly?
A maid?
The place screamed excess.
Money.
From the sturdy, huge bookcases she found in what looked to be a library-slash-office, to the black marble standing shower and matching clawfoot tub in a bathroom directly across from a state-of-the-art kitchen.
The kitchen was where Ginevra found Corrado nursing a glass of amber liquid. Whiskey, given the bottle sat in front of him on the gray, granite countertops. Stainless steel appliances and white cupboards surrounded him in the large space, and yet, somehow, he still dominated it. Her attention was only on him, and that haunted look in his eyes.
What was that from?
“There were keys in the bowl near the door,” she said.
Corrado looked her way. “And?”
“I just ... thought it looked like someone had recently left and planned to be back or something.”
“Or something,” he replied.
“Do you have a roommate here?”
Corrado laughed. “I own this penthouse, and we use it when we’re in the city to visit my family.”
“We?”
He cleared his throat, setting the glass to the counter a little harder than was necessary. She could tell just by the look in his eyes that moody Corrado was back—oh, he still looked the same, sure, still devastatingly handsome, but that attitude screamed back off without him even needing to say a word.
Was it because of this place?
Or her asking questions?
“Don’t you have something else to do?” Corrado asked. “It was a sixteen-hour drive, find a place to sleep.”
“So, no one else lives here, then? I don’t want to wake up to someone—”
“I have to make some calls.”
With that said, Corrado moved around the kitchen island, and crossed the space. He passed her by in the doorway without as much as a look in her direction, and that only left Ginevra more confused than ever.
He’d said we.
She heard it.
What did that mean?
• • •
“Fuck, thanks, I’m sure she’ll be grateful to have something to wear,” Ginevra heard Corrado say, his voice muted from how far it was traveling through the penthouse. “I’ll take her out in a couple of days, or something, and let her grab the rest, but at least she’ll have something to wear until then.”
“No worries.”
At the new male voice, Ginevra left the safety of the library where she had been mulling over the events of her life that led her to this place, and trying to find a book to take to bed at the same time. She couldn’t do anything to change her circumstances at the moment, so she was content to distract her mind until something happened.
She lingered in the hallway as the conversation near the entry of the penthouse continued on between Corrado, and the newcomer. He hadn’t said anyone would be coming over, so she wondered if it was maybe the other person who lived here.
“You want me to let Ma and Papa know you’re here, or what?”
“I’ll call,” Corrado said. “They were expecting me, anyway. I just showed up a little earlier, that’s all.”
“Right, and they won’t ask questions at all.”
“I can’t answer all of them even if they do.”
“Yeah, I get you. The League, or ...?”
“No,” Corrado murmured. “Do you want a drink, or do you have somewhere to be?”
“I could have one drink, but I need to head out soon. A meeting tonight with some of the Capos, you know. It never ends.”
“You always were a better made man than you were an assassin, Chris. I’m glad you figured that out before it was too late.”
Chuckles echoed down the hallway. Ginevra came to the end, and peered around carefully so she wouldn’t be seen. For a second, she thought she was seeing doubles as she found the two men standing at the end of the entrance hallway.
Like mirrors of one another.
It took her a second.
Then, two.
Twins, she realized.
Corrado had an identical twin.
If she hadn’t known the clothes Corrado was wearing earlier, she might have needed to look twice to try and tell the difference between the two. They stood the same facing one another, arms crossed over their chests, and features looking as though they’d been cut from stone. Corrado’s brother—Chris, wasn’t it?—wore his hair a bit longer, and his three-piece suit was a contrast against the simple black slacks and silk shirt his twin wore.
There were differences.
But not many.
And they were surface, things. Clothes, hairstyle, and so forth. Nothing really physical about them was different, or at least, not that Gi
nevra could tell from this far away.
“Does he know,” Chris started to ask, “that there’s a chick here, I mean?”
Corrado shook his head. “Didn’t mention that ... yet.”
“Probably should, man.”
“Yeah, I will.”
Ginevra was too caught up in the fact that the two looked so similar that she missed part of their conversation. She didn’t really understand what they were talking about, now.
“We have a guest,” Chris said, his gaze drifting to Ginevra.
She was quick to dart back around the corner, but not before Corrado turned, and laid eyes on her, too.
Shit.
She caught that look he had.
Intense, again.
Contemplative.
Like he didn’t know what to make of her. It was the same stare he’d had in the car, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Or how it made her feel, or why she felt anything about it at all, really.
Why did it feel like everything was changing? That this was going to end up being more than just her hiding away from her half-brothers while New York waged a mafia war?
“Yeah,” she heard Corrado say, “I think I found trouble with that one.”
“Seems like you find trouble a lot, man.”
“That’s unfair, and—”
“And you’re not a liar, so.”
“You know what,” Corrado said, “fuck the drink, get out.”
Chris laughed loudly. “I missed you, Corrado.”
“Can’t say the same.”
“Lies.”
Ginevra slipped back down the hallway, and into the library.
No one came to find her.
She didn’t mind.
19.
Corrado
“How long do you think you’ll need?” Dare asked.
“A couple months, maybe. I’ll let you know if I need more time off.”
Dare made a noise on the other end of the call, but didn’t question Corrado on why he needed time off. That was thing about The League—being an independent contractor, essentially, allowed him more freedom than other members who went up on the auctions, and signed years of their lives away to buyers.
Corrado would never do that.
No one owned him.
“I thought you wanted to do that upcoming job with Alessio. The political hit in Albania, I mean,” Dare said, “because this will fall in that time frame, according to the details I have for that assignment.”
